Arc
by CRCoda
Summary: What happens when you are free and have to leave everything you wanted behind?


Authors Note: This is really just attempt at doing a self contained short story with possibilities. (Or a SCSSWP as I just made up). I want to see how it compares and what you all think. Really just something I wrote on a whim from some inspiration. Thanks for taking the time to look at it.

A man clothed in dark colors walked through a dark night. The fog was thick tonight. The man almost allowed himself the liberty of enjoying the cold, damp embrace of the ocean and thinking of himself as a shadow in the night. He knew though such thinking was both foolish and potentially dangerous. The man was of medium height. He had long copper hair, pale skin, and a goatee and mustache. His skin was pale, which was one reason he knew he would never be a perfect shadow in the night.  
He wore a long flowing coat, black of course. His boots sounded on the pavement, though the fog muffled the sound. Despite the late hour he wore sunglasses. This curious man also carried a letter, which had been folded in thirds and held in black leather gloves with a grip that made sure no gust of wind would take his charge.  
He paused under and orange halo cast by the streetlight and looked across the road. There was the house he sought. There was a light on in the second story window. Her light was on. He smiled, even at this hour, he knew she would be there. He crossed the street and climbed the stairs that were still so familiar. Grabbing a post, supporting the extension of the roof over the porch he leaned out into space. He tucked the letter in an inner coat pocket, which now had its tip pointing down to the lawn below. He hooked his glove hand and knocked on the window and returned his center of balance to the porch.  
He heard the window open and could see a shadow lean out from the room. Having her attention, he then knocked on the door, softly enough to only attract her attention. He then put the folded letter in the space between the door and the frame at about eye level. Then, he turned and walked down those familiar steps, into the familiar street. Preparing himself to do the very difficult task of leaving that comfortable and contented familiar.  
A young woman, who for all appearances looked to be ready to go to bed, opened the door. The plain white paper fluttered down to her feet. She bent down to pick it up, and unfolded it. The script was flowing, but in a precise and perfect way. The typed letter read:  
  
My Dearest Abbey, First, I must apologize for not being able to see you again, though I long to. Time, though, is rarely on my side anymore. Even now, I must be brief, or they will find me. They always find a way. I can only hope that I am not important enough for their intense focus. I do not know what they have told you about where I have gone. I do know that whatever it was, it was a lie. I am going to tell you the truth, so that you will know and can maybe return to me. There is a war being fought right now beneath your very notice. It is fought in the back alleys, the darkened streets, on the rooftops of warehouses. We fight and die in those forgotten places; heroes make final stands against a faceless enemy who hunts us day and night. There is no mercy, no quarter, given in these desperate struggles. I have seen comrades die in place without any hope in their eyes as we run, thankful for the renewed lease on life and preparing to mourn later. My search for the truth was answered, and that truth set me free, Abbey. The truth is, we are all slaves. Slaves to something that you cannot understand without seeing. I know that it doesn't seem possible or make sense, but you have to believe me. I fight now to protect the independence of individuals already liberated from bondage, and to liberate still more. This clandestine war of ideals exacts its heavy toll on me, and on us all. I fear, in my darkest moments, that we cannot win. Our enemies are implacable, insatiable, and always, always on our heels like the hounds of Hell. We are always outnumbered, outgunned, on the defensive, running in the dark, and hoping against hope that what we do will give us an advantage. It is the strength of my convictions, which allows me to continue to struggle. It is the knowledge that the fight is just, that in the end, the sacrifices made by my comrades and myself is not vain. I am a soldier, not in a forgotten war Abbey, but it an unknown war. I am a proud soldier in this difficult cause. We fight for a people who do not know of our desperate struggle for their freedom, even when they turn against us, for they know not what they. Do not worry for my safety, I have but the tenuous respite of a soldier now. I am free now, and use that freedom in the service of others. I leave you first with the desperate plea not to seek myself, but to seek the truth. If you seek the truth, it will seek you, and you will be freed by it. That is most important of all. Second I leave you with my love and hope that I shall see you again when you are amongst the liberated. I now longer use my assigned name, so I will sign with my chosen name.  
  
Yours in the darkest hours,  
  
Arc  
  
The signature was his, though. She knew that handwriting and knew that the letter was his. Despite the letter's plea she worried for him. She knew he was looking for something, it always consumed him. He seemed to have found it, but it offered no tranquility, only more struggle. She held the letter tightly, looking out into the gray night for any sign of her love. She saw none, and all at once she felt loss wash over her all again. After a timeless vigil in the night, she had to turn once again inside. The letter, while reminding her of pain, offered renewed hope. She would find this truth which could only be alluded to. She was bound for the truth and the Promised Land.  
Some blocks away, walking at a quick pace, Arc pulled a cell phone out from his inside coat pocket. He heard the familiar answer of 'Operator'.  
"I'm done," was the quick, concise reply he gave the voice on the other end of the line.  
"4th and Canyon, we'll be waiting for you."  
Arc turned the corner and heard the phone ring in the booth. He picked up the receiver and in a rush was all at once, sitting in his chair on the Taranis, staring up the 'Operator'. She had an expression somewhere between relief and exasperation. After Arc was unplugged and upright, he grinned. It was after hours on the Taranis. Most of the crew was asleep and it was just his and hers watch.  
Still grinning Arc said, "Thanks Sprite."  
"And, don't you ever ask me to do anything that stupid again. If you'd been caught, and I'd been caught helping you, or if anything had happened."  
"But, nothing did. It all went fine. In quick, handed off the package, out quick," Arc said in placating tones.  
"It was still stupid and dangerous and I can't believe I let you talk me into it. You even signed it, they can trace that you know," She said, still flustered, like she'd been ever since Arc talked her into it. She'd likely stay that way for sometime afterward too.  
"Another mind on its way to freedom, that's something, isn't it?" Arc said, then hoping to head off any further argument he added, "We should get up to the cockpit to get back to the watch before anyone notices."  
Sprite nodded, though still didn't look happy and started climbing the ladder to the upper deck. Arc followed, but paused and looked back at the monitors. He saw her there. She had begun the search. "We'll get you out soon. I promise," He said softly.  
After hearing Sprite say something that sounded an awful lot like 'what are you doing', Arc hurried back up into the cockpit. The Taranis started to float again shortly after that and continue along its journey back to Zion.


End file.
